Not all the time, mind you. But on some nights when he, like the rest of Americans, is too tired to care about cooking.

"People have misconceptions about how chefs eat. When I go to my mother's, I have tuna casserole and meatloaf," says Mr. Rork, 43.

On this night, though, it's a different story. For his wife Betsy and 16-month-old son Andrew, who just have returned from a Florida vacation, Mr. Rork has planned a celebratory homecoming: braised chicken with garden herbs, roasted garlic mashed potatoes, and a mesclun salad with blue cheese and a balsamic vinaigrette.

"Are we going to tell the truth?" asks Ms. Rork, 34, looking over to her husband. "This is not an everyday occurrence. . . . He never cooks."

Actually "never," she says, is an exaggeration. Once a month or so, he'll whip up something -- waffles with grilled bananas, salmon brochettes, barbecued duck.

When Mr. Rork is in the kitchen, the result is often extraordinary -- and that includes the number of dirty dishes he leaves. His wife's decision to prepare more meals is partly a practical one, especially considering the family's lopsided division of labor.

"When he cooks, I do the dishes," she says. "And when I cook, I do the dishes."

They try to eat healthfully at home, making chicken, fish, pasta and vegetables as often as possible. Ms. Rork does most of the grocery shopping at Eddie's on North Charles Street and Belvedere Square. And rather than prepare dessert, Mr. Rork is more likely to walk over to the 7-Eleven for a pint of Ben & Jerry's.

Although the Rorks generally have similar tastes in food, they're split on one thing: hot dogs. She loves them; he doesn't.

"It's the heartburn effect," he explains. "Nothing personal, Esskay."

Their son isn't much for ballpark franks, either. When you're the child of a chef, maybe you're destined to have more refined taste buds. But salmon, swordfish and scallops for a toddler? That's the diet Andrew prefers: His parents say he's been resisting foods that are harder to chew, such as chicken.

Before he was born, the Rorks ate out more and lingered over dinner longer. While they still get takeout (the Pizza Boli's box is on the radiator), it's now primarily from favorite spots like Kawasaki or Bangkok Place.

With such hectic schedules, they have made one rule about the dinner hour: It's not to be disturbed. That tradition will be even more difficult to keep up this fall when their second child is due.

But the Rorks already have survived a few misadventures in the kitchen, including the first night they had dinner in their house in Old Homeland.

Mr. Rork had prepared pasta with shoestring fried eggplant. He handed the pan to his wife, not realizing it was too hot to grab without potholders. Dinner landed on the floor.

L Says Ms. Rork, "We ended up going out to dinner that night."

It's 10 o'clock, Spike Gjerde, do you know where your dinner is?

There's something akin to a meal here: beans simmering on the burner, fish fillets on the counter and the juice of a dozen blood oranges in a bowl.

But where, oh where, is the Spike & Charlie's chef? He's walking out the door in search of a forgotten ingredient -- oil. Before leaving, he hands over a copy of "On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen" by Harold McGee.

"That's the most important thing in my kitchen," he says, --ing into the rain.

To be honest, there's not much else here.

White cabinets. An empty Evian bottle. A speckled linoleum floor.

The refrigerator is equally barren. Its entire contents: a container of pink grapefruit juice, three wedges of cheese, half an onion, old cilantro, a few shallots and peppers.

"Don't report me to the culinary authorities," he says with a laugh as he returns.

If you were being kind, you'd call this ambience single-guy chic. If you were being honest, you'd call it messy. There are socks in the living room, pennies all over the floor. There is one dining room chair in the entire Charles Village apartment.